


The First Movement

by cynical_violet



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_violet/pseuds/cynical_violet
Summary: A Mclennon fic that consists of a hungover John, who continues to drink, and a dainty Paul who loves his piano.





	The First Movement

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by something a few days ago and it all played out into my first Mclennon fic.

In a dim room, only a studio light shined across the sheer black surface of a grand piano. An empty glass was joined by a tall bottle of orange liquor as both sat upon the smooth top of the piano. Hunched over the array of black and white keys was a man of fair height and a slightly wide build. The man’s angled jawline was illuminated by the single studio light, but his eyes were sunken back into the shadows of his face. Despite the hardened bags under his eyes, the man’s frantic fingers that traced various keys were a sign of his restlessness. Before he could reach to pour another glass, the swish of the door opening alerted the man. His skinny fingers retracted from the bottled poison and fumbled busily on the piano edge. 

“Aw shit, I told ye he’d be in here,” the hollow face of George peered into the dark room, but jerked out before the man could utter a syllable.  
“Alrigh’. Thanks, love,” the melodic voice of his mate, Paul, drifted to his ears.  
“Don’t thank me yet. He looks like a bloody pile of shit,” George grumbled cynically. “Good luck with it, mate.” 

The man internally winced at his bandmate’s harsh comment, but he outwardly felt like punching George in his skeleton-like face. However, the bitter thought faded away as soon as Paul’s soft face rounded past the door. Paul let out a slightly distasteful sigh as he gently closed the door; these were not exactly public matters. 

“John, love, the moon has risen,” Paul breathed as he rested his hands in a tender manner on John’s slumped shoulders.

John managed a grunt of acknowledgement as his bandmate pressed some of his weight onto him. 

“That means up and at ‘em,” his mate pulled a sly grin as he lifted John’s chin so that their gazes met.

Paul’s hazel eyes glimmered with optimism as he gazed down at John. Instead of responding to Paul, John let out a heavy sigh and slid his hand around his mate to grab the bottle. Noticing John’s determination, Paul took a step back and observed with disappointment. The sound of liquid splashing inside an empty glass was all too familiar with all the boys, but Paul could not help his concern for John as he finished poured the rest of the scotch.  
;John decisively disregarded the disapproval because he had grown accustomed to it. The bourbon bite of scotch latched itself to John’s taste buds as he took a swift swig from his short glass. He watched the trail of amber liquid slosh down the glass until it reached his thin lips. Paul’s fingertips made their way along the piano as he hummed an unfamiliar tune. Annoyance crowded his head as his personal space was being deliberately invaded by Paul.  
“Oi, Macca! Get out me arse, would ya?” John scowled after a belch. 

Paul continued tapping effortlessly and hummed the same notes. 

“What the fuck are ye playin’ anyways?” John smacked Paul’s hands from in front of his torso area.  
“A little something I picked up from when me mum would play her records,” Paul persisted to pick up back on the piano as if unscathed.  
“But what is it?”  
“I don’t know, perhaps you could pick up on it and I’ll tell you,” he grinned with challenge. 

John let a groan escape his lips as Paul demonstrated once repeatedly. Eventually Paul leaned onto the seat from which John had been sitting on. Grudgingly, John allowed his cheery bandmate to sit adjacent to him as he played the unknown song. 

“Do I have to?” John complained.  
“It’d definitely impress ol’ George, wouldn't it?” Paul mentioned their superior.  
“What makes ye think I need his approval?”  
“Nothing, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn this legendary sonata.” 

Paul’s eyebrows arched with emphasis as John pondered his words. John did not give a shit about their producer’s approval, but he did hate it when he heard a song and could not identify it. It was also obvious that Paul was teasing him; which irked him even more and made his offer more compelling. 

“Fine,” John grunted with an eye roll.  
“That’s the spirit!” 

John began to follow his sober mate’s hands as they pinpointed each key necessary to compose such a “legendary,” piece. Paul’s fingers would correct John’s every so often with a gentle nudge to the proper position. They remained in C-sharp minor for the whole bout of the sonata. Leaning into John, Paul made sure that he would keep a somewhat stable posture. Although he would not admit it, John appreciated the support from him, because he was exhausted from consuming a good amount of alcohol. Nothing quite registered in his mind for the time being, except the soft brushing of Paul’s hands against his own. The sounds of the piano’s trembling strings were nothing compared to the comforting warmth of Paul’s breath on the back of John’s neck. He felt his own heart rate slur to the drone of the melody that Paul passed on to him. After a while, his fingers mindlessly trailed obediently after Paul’s fingers until they were no longer beside his.  
The somewhat shorter and thinner Beatle traipsed delicately from the piano’s side, and waltzed under the luminescence of the single studio light. It trembled with every chord struck from within the piano frame, which made the light bounce ever so slightly on Paul’s dainty but dramatic eyelashes. John found himself lost in the confident figure of his bandmate. His eyelids remained closed and his sway began to give way to the brooding tones. The manner in which he swayed was effortless, but yet, fully purposeful and enchanting. Perhaps it was the alcohol buzzing again, or the half-smoked joint from earlier on.  
The doubt dissolved as Paul’s mellifluous humming attached itself to the mindless playing of John’s fingertips. A sort of impatience swarmed in his lungs as he held his breath while he gazed after Paul. The slender male had leaned on the pole of the studio light and swayed around as if it was his axis. This expression was not promiscuous or grotty in any way; rather, it was tranquil and somber. It was if moonlight was pouring in on him and he was bathing in its glory. John kept his jaw clenched as he observed the fragile frame of Paul desert the light in aquiver. Of course, it was not that that had heightened his awareness of his mate. No, instead it was the moment of when Paul slid himself onto the glossy black surface of the piano.  
Although the movements were not abrupt, John’s heartbeat hastened and he could not completely avert from the twinkle in Paul’s brilliant eyes. The humming grew louder and sweeter. Paul’s fingers traced a wide circle on the glistening surface. His gaze bored into the hair on John’s bent head because he would not glance up from his attempts of concentration on the keys. Then Paul ceased his humming all of a sudden, which earned a glimpse from John.  
His bandmate was poised to where his feet met the edge of the piano, and so that John could plainly see his pointed-toe boots. Paul’s knees were angled upwards as he stared up at the blank ceiling. His hand reached out for nothing and he giggled to himself. John could not bite back a bit of aggravation as his fingers grew weary of repeating the same tune of which he still could not recognize. If it was legendary then it could be Bach, Mozart, or even Beethoven. Those were the only composers John could name off the top of his head. 

“Eh come on Paulie, just tell me!” John whined. “Me fingers are dying here.” 

Instead of replying to John’s complaints, Paul hopped off the piano and ambled painstakingly over. The tapping of his boots could be heard as John decided to play softer. Paul inched his way back onto the bench and leaned in close to John’s hunched shoulder. His breath eased out into John’s ear and brushed his wisps of hair. As if this was not alarming enough, Paul placed his hands on top of his own; which immediately cut off the vibrating strings. John inhaled sharply as Paul leaned his lips centimeters from his ear. He shivered as Paul prepared to speak.

“That—my friend—is Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata,” the words came as a mere whisper from Paul. “The first movement.”


End file.
